Son of Music
by trallgorda
Summary: Young Phillippe DeChagny has never been allowed to visit the Opera. Why? Who is waiting there for him?
1. Chapter 1

I.

My entire life changed the day I crept away from my chaperone to attend an evening at the Garnier Opera. I was fifteen years old and convinced that I knew better than any adult born, and was smarter than the vast majority of them to boot. I could take care of myself, and I would be back in my hotel bed before dawn without a soul the wiser.

After much begging and pleading and arguing on my part, I was finally given permission from my parents to go on a school trip to Paris. We lived in Bretagne, and to go on the trip would have meant cutting the school holidays short a week, but I was willing to put up with any discomfort to see Paris. I was fifteen years old that winter, and I felt my life was barren because I had never seen the City of Light.

"I don't know why you're so set on going to Paris, Phillippe," my mother had said that Christmas. "After all, you're still just a boy. There will be plenty of time later."

I forbore to mention that both parents of mine had lived in Paris when they were younger and so did not count it to be the unexplored wonder that I did.

"I've lived a lifetime and I've never even been near the place!" I persisted. "You and Father tell me about it all the time, and I've never seen the places you describe to me! I want to go, Mother. Please. There will be chaperones for us, and two of my friends are going. I'd love to go with them. Professor Amitard has already given out the itinerary and on it are all the places I've dreamed of going! We'll be visiting the Louvre more than once! Think of it! The Louvre! And we'll be touring Saint-Chappelles and Notre Dame, and we'll be going to the Bois de Boulogne, the Bois de Vincennes, and the Tuileries! Then, the night before we leave for school, we'll go to the Opera! We'll be seeing _Faust_, and I've never seen it!"

"Absolutely not!" my father suddenly rapped out. "If the trip entails you going to the Opera, then I won't have it! I won't have you going near the place!"

Mother and I both stared. I had been to theaters before to see plays, ballets, and operas, so why did my father suddenly not want me to go to the Opera?

"Raoul," my mother said, breaking the silence that followed, "What you're thinking is not possible."

"I'd rather not take the chance," he answered, mystifying me further. "Surely you can understand."

It was another instance where my parents both discussed something without saying a word aloud. They simply looked at one another for a few moments before an agreement was reached between them. Such times had been happening my whole life. Conversation would suddenly stop and topics would be changed. I had no idea what it was that they so carefully avoided saying, but this time I was not going to allow it to get in my way. I was going to Paris, and that was that.

"Look, I understand your being worried," I began, ready to try compromise. "Paris is a big city, after all. If I promise to stay close to the chaperones at all times, even at the Opera, may I still go?"

"You may go if you promise not to set foot in the Opera," my father said, immediately and cruelly crushing my hopes of _Faust_. "I will ask Professor Amitard to devise something else for you that evening, but I don't want you to go to the Opera. Do you understand, Phillippe?"

"But, Father!" I protested, ready to beg my way to the Opera if need be.

"It is either you go to Paris without seeing the Opera, or you do not go to Paris at all," Father said in his most implacable way. I knew that pleading would do no good, so I agreed that I would not go to the Opera with the rest of the boys.

Don't be mistaken. Father's trust was important to me. I did intend to keep my promise, and I would have kept it had I not complained about this (to me) unfair condition to my going to Paris. As soon as I had told my friends about this, Charles and Pierre devised a plan that would get me to the Opera without the chaperones noticing I was there. I would come to hate myself for following their advice.

The night before I left, Mother came to my room to talk to me.

"I want you to be careful in Paris, Phillippe," she said, helping me pack my suitcase. My trunk with all of my school things would be forwarded to school, so I would be taking a suitcase to Paris with me. In it were several suits that were (pardon the pun) suitable for every location and event we would be attending, and of course, the many accessories that young men feel it necessary to have. Not the least of them were books that I was having trouble finding room for. Unlike my parents, I was a voracious reader. They enjoyed the occasional novel or book of poetry, but I read anything that came to my hands.

"Of course I'll be careful, Mother," I said, trying to fit _Ossian_ next to _Rasselas_. "I don't intend on going just to get into trouble. I want to enjoy myself, and not worry about the consequences of any stupid actions."

She nodded. "I know you'll be sensible, dear. It's just that…" She paused, as if debating whether she should continue. "I suppose what I'm trying to say is to be careful of strangers. People in large cities can be dangerous, even the ones who don't seem to be. A wolf can often seem like a harmless dog. Don't go anywhere on your own, and don't go anywhere with someone you don't know. Also, if someone approaches you and tries to get you to go with him, don't! Keep with your classmates and teachers, and don't talk to anyone else if you can help it. Do you understand?"

"You make it sound as if someone in Paris is plotting to kidnap me!" I joked, but in the next moment I realized that that could have been what she feared, for she snatched me up in an embrace that almost choked me.

"Don't think such a thing!" she cried, not loosening her hold. "Just stay with your classmates, Phillippe, and you will be fine." That last sounded as if she were really trying to console herself rather than console me.

"I'll be fine," I assured her. "I didn't intend to run off into Paris' many alleyways and side streets. I promise you, I won't talk to strangers or go off by myself."

At last, she let me go, but I could tell by the way she frowned that she was still worried.

Space

"It's criminal!" Pierre snapped, looking furious. "Why is he so set against you going to the Opera?"

"I don't know," I confessed. "As soon as I mentioned it, he and Mother became secretive. It was either promise not to go there, or I would have had to stay at home."

Charles shook his head, unable to understand it. "I thought my parents were strange, but yours, Phillippe, take the whole buffet instead of just the cake."

"Ha ha," I answered him, glaring. "That joke is too priceless for words."

"Hey, now, let's not fight," Pierre said, trying to make peace. "The important thing is to get you to the Opera!"

I stared at him, the only sound breaking our sudden silence was the clickety-clack of the train. We were on the train and headed for Paris, and the only response to Pierre's bold statement I could think of was to stare at him like a grounded fish. Oh, brilliant.

"You'd have me break my word to my father?" I said at last, not wanting to admit how much it bothered me to miss the Opera.

"Well, I don't see why not," Charles said, coming to Pierre's defense. "It isn't fair, really, that all of us get to go but you don't! Besides, it sounds as if they're keeping secrets from you, and that isn't right at all. Plus, your father gave you no choice in the matter. You should go!"

Pierre agreed with him, and he began to outline a plot that would get me to the Opera. Since he had been several times to the Garnier, he would help me by taking my place. As everyone would be getting ready to go to the Opera, I would pretend to be very tired and go to bed. Then, Pierre would take my place in bed and I would go to the Opera by cab. There was always one box, he said, that was never taken, and he would reserve that one for me so I could be sure to have a seat.

"Why is it never taken?" I asked, intrigued.

"It's rumored to be haunted," he said in his offhand way. "Theater-folk are very superstitious, and they don't like renting it out if they can help it, but if someone insists, then they have to. I know you're not frightened of ghosts, Phillippe, so that shall be _your_ box!"

I laughed, because he was referring to an incident that had happened my first year at school. Some of the older boys had been trying to convince us that a certain room on the top floor of the dormitories was haunted, and I proved that I wasn't scared by staying there all night on my own. I heard the older boys in the next room, walking up and down and moaning in an attempt to scare me, but I didn't allow their tricks to frighten me. The next morning I was a hero, and everyone said that I was the only student ever to not be afraid of ghosts or believe in them. Naturally, I was very proud of this, so I averred every time someone asked me that I did not believe in ghosts.

I would start to believe before I left the Opera on the final night of our stay in Paris.

Space

Pierre's plan went off without a problem. On that final day of touring Paris, I debated with myself whether I should go through with it or not. I had given my word, but on the other hand, Father had rather unfairly given me no choice. While we wandered the Louvre for the last time, I wondered if I should just pretend to get ill in order to get out of going. But then, I remembered how I felt when Father had practically forced me to promise not to go into the Opera, and my resolve would harden once more. Shortly after that, I would start to worry, and that was how I was thinking that whole day.

I would have enjoyed the Lovre more that day had I not had to worry about that night. We saw da Vinci's work, and the Nike, and the Egyptian and Mesopotamian artifacts, and most wonderful of all, the crown jewels of France. Shortly after that we headed back to the hotel to get ready for the evening. Once we were at the hotel I was to go into action.

Pierre's final admonition to "break a leg" resolved me to go. I had always wished to see the Garnier, and I really saw no reason why I should not go, so I began to feign being very tired. Professor Amitard, seeing me suddenly curled up in a chair, asked me what was the matter, and I told him that I was suddenly very tired and I felt a little odd. Immediately, one of the other chaperones looked me over and said that I was sickening for something and should be in bed. Madame Campbell, our English teacher, volunteered to stay behind to keep an eye on me since she did not enjoy opera. While she sat out in the salon of our suite knitting a purse, Pierre and I traded places, Pierre having got away from the group with the excuse of feeling ill as well. He would stand in for both of us.

It did not take me long to get a cab and get to the Opera. Sometime during the week, Pierre had been able to reserve the box for me, and I arrived in full evening dress at the front door of the Opera twenty minutes before the show started. I made my way inside, through the foyer, and up the grand staircase after presenting my ticket to the doorman. An usher led me to Box Five, shooting furtive little glances at me out of the corner of his eye. He looked as if he doubted my sanity for taking the "haunted" box.

"Will you need anything, Monsieur…" He let his voice trail off, waiting to be supplied with my name.

"De Chagny," I said, giving him a smile. "No, I won't need anything except a program."

He nodded, gave me a program, and turned to leave. Just as he reached the door, he turned back to me.

"Monsieur, if you are asked to leave during the performance, do not take it amiss," he said. "This is the Ghost's box, and he has asked people to go before. If he asks you to go, please do so, for he likes to be obeyed."

I nodded. "I understand," I said, trying to reassure him. "If the ghost comes, I shall beg his pardon."

My levity did not please him, and he left, muttering something about fools tempting fate. I smiled at that. What fate was there to tempt? There was no such thing as ghosts, I knew that, and so there would be no ghost asking me to leave the box.

I sat back in my seat and turned my attention to the orchestra pit, where the musicians were warming up. I sat back and listened as various instruments began to sound. There were the strings, the woodwinds, and the brass, and with a rumble that I could feel in my blood, the percussion began to sound themselves out.

Music is in my blood, you might say. Both Father and Mother are musicians. More than once I found them in the music room at home, he playing the piano or the violin, and she singing. They had known each other as children in Bretagne, and Mother's father had taught Father the violin while he and Mother had still been children. Despite Father's being a viscount and Mother a simple musician's daughter, they married after meeting up in Paris after several years' separation and they settled in Bretagne. After that, I came along, and I had inherited their love for music. By the age of four I had mastered the piano and by six (with Mother's help) I could sing. Father began to coach me on the violin, and now, by fifteen, I had mastered that, the flute, and had composed for years. Mother and Father were both pleased at my talent, but I usually received the feeling that there was something about it significant to them. It was as if they were mentally comparing me to someone they both knew.

While I was sitting there, thinking about this, I heard the first whisper. Thinking that my mind was playing tricks on me, I turned my attention to the rest of the theater, taking in the red velvet, crystal chandeliers, marble, and general beauty surrounding me. Charles Garnier must have been inspired from heaven to create such a building. The seats were just about filled, with men and ladies, and down below on the floor I could see my classmates and the chaperones.

_What is he doing here?_

I whipped around in my chair, certain that it had not been my mind playing tricks that time. When I saw no one, I decided that it must have been someone speaking in some nearby box. I had mistaken their voice for a whisper behind me.

I returned my attention to the crowds and architecture, determined to enjoy myself. I was so involved in watching the rest of the theater while waiting for the curtain to rise that I received quite a shock by my usher coming in. He still looked nervous, and his eyes shot around the box as if he were afraid someone might be lurking in the shadows.

"Did you call me, Monsieur de Chagny?" he asked, one hand still resting on the doorknob. "I heard your voice."

"No, I did not call you," I told him, my heartbeat returning to normal. "Are you sure you heard me?"

"I did, sir," he assured me, nodding his head. "It was your voice exactly."

Both of us stared at the other, and he left after a murmured apology. A little surprised (and nervous) at this evidence of something "ghostly," I turned my attention back to the stage. The orchestra went through a final run, tuned, and then the prelude began as the lights dimmed.

As the curtain went up, I thought I heard someone behind me. I turned, saw no one, and then decided to _never_ listen to talk of ghosts again. I could have sworn that someone had been behind me, and indeed, that I had gotten a glimpse of someone in evening dress with a mask! I turned my whole attention to _Faust_, determined not to let ghosts bother the performance.

What music! Now I knew why my mother spoke of Gounod so highly. The music itself made me feel as if I were experiencing every emotion that the characters were portraying onstage. Faust's despair at being an old man, his life wasted, his initial misgivings, and then his eagerness for youth again! Margeurite's joy in life, her love for the gallant young lord Faust who courted her, and then her terrible sadness at being condemned to die. When they laughed, I laughed, when they wept, I wept as well. As events turned and the scenes grew bleaker, I could not help allowing the tears to come. By the scene in the dungeon cell, I was weeping freely, and by Faust's and Mephistopheles' entrance to save her, I could barely see the action onstage. I could still hear, however, and that was enough. The words that both sang went to my heart, where, I was certain, I would remember them for always.

_Oui, c'est moi, je t'aime,_

_Oui, c'est moi, je t'aime…_

_Malgre l'effort meme_

_Du demon moquer._

_Je t'ai retrouvee!_

_Te voila sauvee! C'est moi,_

_Viens, viens sur mon coeur!_

I could understand those words completely. "Yes, it's me, I love you. Despite all the efforts of that mocking devil, I have found you again, you are saved! It is I, come, come to my heart!" The young lover trying to reassure his love that he was there and that all was well. I knew the story by heart from Mother and Father's telling it to me so often, but to see it and hear it!

Then, Margeurite realized that something was not right…the evil one was near and would drag her down to hell! Her supplication to Heaven for aid!

_Mon Dieu, protegez-moi!_

_Mon Dieu, je vous implore!_

_Anges purs, anges radieux!_

_Portez mon ame au sien des cieux!_

_Dieu juste, a toi je m'abandonne!_

_Dieu bon, je suis a toi! Pardonne!_

My God, protect me!

My God, I implore you!

Pure and radiant angels!

Carry my soul up to Heaven!

Just God, I surrender myself to Thee!

Kind God, I am Thine! Forgive me!

With a great suspension of sound, the action stopped as Margeurite demanded to know why Faust had blood on his hands. Then, as she cried out, "_Vas! Tu me fais horreur!"_ Go! You fill me with horror! Mephistopheles triumphed, and rang out _"Jugee!"_

Damned! Faust was bound for Hell itself, and as Mephistopheles stretched out his hands to take Faust, he also reached for Margeurite, but descending from the clouds were a host of angels, the very aid Margeurite had begged for! As one, they sang out one word that sent Mephistopheles fleeing with his prize: _Sauvee!_ Saved! They surrounded Margeurite, and once they pulled away, she could be seen again dressed in a white gown, a radiant glow surrounding her. As one, they rose toward Heaven, singing and calling out the glories of God the Father, Forever Kind and Merciful.

People leapt to their feet, applauding, and only I remained in my seat, much as I would have liked to deliver the standing ovation the performers deserved. No, I only remained in my seat because I was certain my legs would not hold me. I was trembling all over, and the only thing I was able to do was take out my handkerchief and bury my face in it. After all of that emotion, I was exhausted beyond description. Slowly, I was able to stand and give my own accolades, and once the curtain calls were over, I dropped back into my chair, glad that there was no great hurry for me to leave. If I left too soon, the other teachers and students would see me on my way out, and I didn't want that to happen. Besides, there was still the ballet to see, and I wished to see it. The teachers would be eager to get the students back to the hotel so they would not be up too late, so I was safe if I left after the ballet.

"Beautiful, wasn't it?" I heard someone say.

I assumed it was my usher, and nodded. "Beautiful doesn't even begin to describe it," I said, wiping my eyes again. "I have never had music affect me so strongly. I've wept before, I'll admit, but I've never actually felt weak after a performance!" I laughed. "I'll be fine, though. What was…?" I had turned to address him directly, but there was no usher there! The door to the box was closed, and there was no sign that he had been there!

I sat there, wondering if I was losing my mind, but then I remembered that there were boxes on either side of me, and I could easily have heard a comment from one of them. Kicking myself for being such a fool, I sat back to wait for the Opera to empty.

Knocking on my door brought me out of my enjoyment of the ballet for a moment. As I answered the knock, my usher came in, carrying a bottle of something and a glass.

"What's this?" I asked as quietly as I could.

"Forgive me, sir, but another gentleman said that you seemed overwrought, and he asked me to bring this to you and make sure you had some," he said, opening the bottle of what appeared to be wine.

"Was he in here?" I asked, suprised.

"Only for a moment," he assured me. "He mistook this box for his own and became concerned enough to stay when he saw you. I think he was right to do so, because you're awfully white."

I had an explanation for my mysterious conversation at last. As he poured me a glass of drink, I asked him to thank that gentleman for me. He nodded and handed me a full glass, with an admonition to get it down me.

I sipped at it carefully after my first taste. It was crisp and fruity, extremely light, and positively delicious. It was not wine, but it was alcoholic, so I drank it carefully while allowing myself to enjoy the flavor. Once I finished my first glass, I gladly accepted a little more while settling back into my chair to enjoy the watching the dancers onstage.

The ballet ended, and I got ready to go. I left a generous tip for my usher (since he had taken good care of me) and I left the box to head for the stairs. I was halfway to the main staircase when I realized that I was feeling decidedly odd. It was not due to alcohol, I could tell. I had been drunk once before (too much champagne at a Christmas party), and this did not feel remotely like it. All of my limbs were very heavy, but I wasn't dizzy, and I felt as if I were going to sleep.

Hands fastened themselves onto my shoulders, guiding me down stairs and hallways, and a voice kept talking to me all the time, saying that I'd had a bit too much of that drink. It sounded like my usher, and I let him lead me along. At one point, I managed to open my eyes long enough to see what looked like a long, dark hallway. Or was it an alley? I couldn't tell, but I really didn't care. It seemed as if he was leading me back to my hotel. Oh, good. At least I didn't have to find my own way back. I didn't feel up to calling a cab and staggering my way inside.

Was I becoming ill? If I were, then I had the perfect cover. I could claim to have been out of my head and had made my way to the Opera in a fever-dream. Great. Now, if I could just manage to remember that plan, everything would be fine.

By this time, I was barely able to keep to my feet. Before I knew what was happening, my usher (I was certain that was who it was) scooped me up and was carrying me. I didn't care. All I cared about was not having to move or even think. My eyes were open, and I caught glimpses of where we were. There were orange glows in the distance: they reminded me of furnaces. There was the sound of dripping water, and the air was very cool and damp, and it smelled a trifle musty. Had it rained while I'd been in the Opera? It could have. It was also dark. Very dark. What was strange about that was that the darkness wasn't ever broken. There wasn't a street lamp or lantern to be seen. There weren't even lights from cafes or restaurants, and in the middle of Paris, that wasn't normal. In the City of Light, there was always light.

By this point, my head began to clear a little. The air was much cooler and I was waking up. Slowly, I realized that I was now lying down in a boat, there was blue light all around, and the person rowing the boat across the water (where on earth was I?) was not my usher. No, it was a man in evening clothes, and he was wearing a mask. He was the man I'd seen before.

What was going on here?

He stopped rowing for a moment, looked at me, and set the oars across the stern of the boat. Then, taking what looked like a handkerchief out of his pocket, came to me and pressed it over my mouth and nose. It was only when he did that that I began to fight. I tried to pull away, tried holding my breath so I wouldn't breathe whatever it was in, but it was impossible to avoid. My mind clouded and I felt my limbs go limp. I could still see and hear, but I wasn't able to do much more than lie there and breathe.

He laid me back down and went back to rowing. I lay there, unable to move, and strangely, feeling sleep creeping up on me. Lying in that boat, hearing water drip and the regular _slosh_ of the oars, and the motion of the boat were combining to put me to sleep. It was a very strange but effective lullaby. My eyes closed, but I didn't fall asleep right away. I could still hear and feel things. I heard the boat bump against something, felt the boat shift as he moved, and felt him pick me up and carry me somewhere. I felt warmth, and I heard a door close behind us. I was carried into another room, and he laid me down on what could have been a bed or sofa (I was pretty certain it was a bed). As he began to undress me I fought to protest, to yell for help, _anything_, but I couldn't make a sound. (I'd heard awful stories about young men being trapped by older men, and I couldn't help thinking of these.) It turned out that I had nothing to fear, though. He left my underclothes on me and covered me up with blankets that were soft and very warm. Then, he spoke.

"I know that you must be very confused and frightened, Phillippe, but you have nothing to fear from me. I promise. I couldn't venture to your hotel or approach you while you were with your schoolmates, so I waited until you came to the Opera. That drink you had tonight was from me, and it had something in it to make you sleep. You only had enough to make you drowsy, though, so I had to give you a little chloroform while we were on the lake. You'll fall asleep in a bit, and when you wake up, you and I will talk, and I shall try to explain. Good night, Phillippe. Pleasant dreams."

He left, and I heard a door close. I tried to sit up, to open my eyes, to move, but it was impossible. Whatever drug had been in that drink, it was doing its work well. I couldn't move, and I was falling asleep. From somewhere I heard the sound of a pipe organ, playing very softly and sweetly, and I recognized the song. It was Brahms' _Guten Abend, Guten Nacht_, Op. 49, No. 4. It was more commonly known as Brahms' Lullaby.

When I woke up, that masked menace and I would be having some words. He was not only a kidnapper, he was an _underhanded _kidnapper!


	2. Chapter 2

II.

I dreamed all that night of music. It was music that lifted me into the air bore me through the clouds, carrying me up towards the sun. The light from that same sun woke me, and I realized that my eyes were open and I was staring at a lighted candle. I had turned onto my side during the night, and I was facing a bedside table. Leaning against the candlestick was a note written in red ink.

My entire body felt heavy as I sat up and brought the note closer to my face to read it.

_Phillippe—_

_Good morning. There is a warm bath for you in the bathroom and a clean suit of clothes in the wardrobe. You will find everything else you need on the dressing table. If you are thirsty, then there is a carafe of water on your bedside table. Once you are dressed, call me, and I will come._

_Erik_

I stared at it, not quite sure what to make of it. Who was this Erik person? Was he my kidnapper of the night before? Most probably. I couldn't help wondering what he wanted with me and why he had brought me here. Where on earth _were_ we, anyway? I looked about for a window to look out of, but there wasn't even one in the room. I checked the bathroom (a warm bath was drawn, just like the note had said) and failed to find one there as well. Also, I couldn't find any doors. Not a door or window in the place. How…disturbing.

I went first for the carafe of water. Whatever I'd been given the night before had made me terribly thirsty, and I finished off half of it before I felt better. After that, I took the fastest bath of my life (indeed, I couldn't help it, my skin was crawling with the need for a bath). I washed quickly, dried even more quickly, and dressed with lightning speed. Even while I rushed through these preparations, I noticed how luxurious everything was. The bathroom was in a Roman style decorated in aqua and green, and the soaps were all from Savon de Marseille. I couldn't even _tell_ which shops the towels and other bath things had come from, but it was likely Mother would have known.

The clothes were enough to give a frugal person heart failure. I recognized the label on them right away: Charvet. The man had bought a Charvet suit for me. Was he mad? Even Father, a count, bought his suits at a less expensive couturier! What was this man thinking? When I checked the wardrobe, I realized that he hadn't bought just one suit, but ten! This man was indecently rich.

To give myself more time to think, I made the bed and set things in order. I combed my hair, checked my appearance at least ten times in the full-length mirror, and paced. I was nervous, and I was terrified of meeting this man and talking to him. What did he want with me? Where had he brought me, and why? Why had he bought me a complete wardrobe? That wardrobe implied that he expected me to stay for a while. (I prayed that he didn't plan on that.) From what he'd said the night before, he sounded as if he'd been following me from the moment I arrived in Paris. He'd said he would explain. Explain what? I stopped in my tracks as I realized something: Was _he_ the reason Father hadn't wanted me to go to the Opera? I remembered all the strange little conversations, the way they would change subjects if I came near, and all the little comments over the years. They all pointed to something in the past, something that neither one of them wanted me to know about, and it was something connected to the Opera. Could this man be it?

Sudden silence deafened me, and I realized that the music I'd been hearing since I got up had stopped. Was he out there somewhere, listening for me to call him? I listened, my heart pounding in my ears (I was being deafened by silence and my own heart!), and decided that was it. Praying for courage (and praying to the saint who watched over fools), I called.

A moment later, a door opened, one that had been disguised as a bookcase! No wonder he'd told me to call him, I'd never had found it. He was a tall, thin man in black evening clothes with a burgundy vest giving his ensemble the slightest bit of color (thank goodness, he looked funereal enough!), and he was wearing a black mask over his face.

"Good morning, Phillippe!" he said jovially, coming into the room. "I trust you slept well."

How could I not have? I wondered. After all, he'd drugged me. I could have done nothing _but_ sleep!

"Are you hungry? There's breakfast ready."

"Who are you?" I demanded, suddenly finding my voice. "Why did you bring me here?" I had been kidnapped by a possible madman in a mask and taken God-knew-where and drugged. The absolute _last_ thing I wanted to do was eat!

"My name is Erik," he said calmly, as if he'd expected my little outburst. "I knew your mother when she worked here at the Opera."

"Mother worked here at the Opera?" I parroted.

"She sings, doesn't she? Rather beautifully?"

"Yes, but that doesn't mean she performed here!"

He pulled something out of his pocket then, and handed it to me. It was an old, yellowed program for _Faust_, and it listed Christine Daae as "Margeurite." I only knew Mother's maiden name because she'd told me all about Grandfather Daae, who'd died before I was born. He was a violinist, and he'd taught Father to play and Mother to sing.

"How did you know her?" I asked. He played music, so it stood to reason he could have been a musician at some point…

"I was her teacher," he said, leaning against the door. "Her first teacher was her father, but when she was here, I gave her the coaching that made her a sensation! All of Paris was talking about her and her transformation from chorus girl to reigning diva, and no one guessed that she was receiving lessons from a voice behind the wall."

I stared at him. "Voice behind the wall?" I asked.

"Yes," he said, nodding. "She didn't see me until after her debut as Paris' darling. You see, Phillippe, I made an awful mistake. I fell in love with a woman who I'd decided would never see the mysterious voice who claimed to be the Angel of Music."

I remembered a story that Mother had told me once while I'd been sick. She'd said that once when she was a little girl, her father had told her the story of the Angel of Music: an angel who helped people who longed for beautiful music. He'd said that he'd send him to her after he died, and some years after he'd gone to Heaven, the Angel of Music did come. That was where she'd stopped telling me about it, but I'd always guessed there was more. It seemed this man was the rest of the story.

"I brought her here, and I told her how I felt," he was saying, bringing me out of my memories. "She was terrified at first, but later, she seemed to calm down. I brought her here to get her away from a childhood friend I could tell she cared for. That friend was Raoul de Chagny, and he was everything I was not for a young woman. He was handsome and a creature of the light, and I was ugly and a creature of the dark. Still, we loved the same woman. We both professed our love for her, and I could tell she was torn. I prayed to God that He would show me some small mercy and allow her to love me, but later, I learned that she and Raoul were planning to run away from Paris together."

I stared at him, not sure what to think. I had known nothing of this. Now I knew why they never went to Paris and why they rarely spoke of it. They didn't want to remember this man and the pain that accompanied all the memories of him. I sank into a chair, unable to stand any longer and listened as he continued.

"I became enraged when I learned their plans, so I kidnapped Christine one night after her performance. I brought her down here once again and gave her a choice: marry me, or I shall make sure that everyone in the Opera would die with us. I'd rigged barrels of gunpowder underneath the Opera, and if she'd said no I would have triggered them to destroy the Opera and us along with it. If she said yes, we would marry in the Madeleine church and begin our lives together. I knew Raoul would come seeking her, and he did, but I made sure he couldn't get to us. There was a room where I could keep an eye on him while Christine made her decision."

I couldn't speak, and something told me that I needed to interrupt him, to make him stop talking, but my voice wouldn't work.

"She turned to me, and she told me that while she loved us both very much, she couldn't marry me: it was living in the dark that frightened her. I could see that she was telling the truth, and that she was sorry for all the pain she'd caused me. The unhappiness in her eyes made me sorry for the pain that I had caused her and the boy she loved, so I forgave them both and gave them my blessings. That was when she gave me a precious gift; the greatest gift that a woman can give a man. After she had given it, I let her and Raoul go, and they were married shortly afterward. I found the result of that gift last night in my box at the Opera, and he is here with me now."

I understood then. He was saying that he was my father! "It's not possible," I said quietly, although I felt like shouting it. "It's just not possible. Father...is Father."

"Raoul cannot have children," he told me gently. "I heard him tell Christine about it. Raoul has brown hair, and Christine is blonde. You have black hair. Now, how is that possible? No, Phillippe, you are my son."

I stared at this man (who did indeed have black hair) and wondered if I was going to lose my mind in the next minute. He had come into my life, turned it upside down, and made me rethink everything I had ever known to be true. Father was not my true father, instead, it was this man, and Mother had been caught between them.

Dearest God, what would all of this mean?

Space

He realized that I wanted to be by myself then, so he brought me some breakfast on a tray and left me on my own. I was hungry (it seemed that I was _always_ hungry then) and I ate. It was hard to enjoy croissants, grapes, and cafe au lait when you felt your mind had been turned inside out, but somehow I managed to eat. Once I finished, I left the tray on the table and wandered my room, looking about and examining the trinkets and curios that were there. There was a curio cabinet in the corner, and inside it were several figures that looked as if they came from Persia and India. The clock on the mantel read half-past nine, but without windows and his greeting of "good morning!" I wouldn't have known it was morning instead of night. All of the furniture was in a Louis-Phillippe style, and there were rugs covering the floor and tapestries and pictures on the walls.

There were bookcases. I've mentioned before that I'm a voracious reader, and these drew me as flames would a moth. He had eclectic tastes, I could tell that right away. There were works on religion (he had copies of the holy scriptures of every major religion), philosophy (Greek and Roman, as well as Eastern), science (numerous), mathematics (numerous), medicine (even more numerous), plants (just as numerous), and countless volumes of literature, both prose and verse (these had their own bookcase, one that reached the ceiling and took up half a wall). Also, and what was even more disturbing, he had all of my favorite authors' works. Where these also his favorites, or had he learned what I liked to read and obtained copies?

I couldn't think about it any more. I found a book (_Gulliver's Travels_ by Jonathon Swift) and curled up on the chaise lounge to read. That book had transported me to distant places before, and I counted on it to do so now. It was when Gulliver had difficulties with the dwarf in Brobdingnag that I heard music. He was playing a piano somewhere in the house, and I couldn't focus on my book. The music was the type of music that made a person's soul soar and drew him up into the sky. It had such a _calling_ sound that I couldn't resist it. I felt like one of the children following the Pied Piper of Hamlin as I headed out through the door and down a hallway towards the music.

I found him in what looked like a drawing room. There were chairs, tables, rugs, lamps, bookcases, and ornaments, as well as the piano in the corner. He was there, playing it, and I made my way over to a chair, still spellbound.

How long I sat there and listened is beyond me, but the piece he was playing seemed to go on and on. It did not have an emotion except, if it is possible, of a sense of journeying. It sounded as if the whole piece was running over hills at an incredible pace while still moving slowly enough to take in the scenery and enjoy it. There were times when I felt as if I were running with wild horses over plains or flying with birds across the sky. Other times I swam in the water like a fish or leapt through the forest like a deer. Slowly, I was drawn in and began to experience the music instead of just hearing it.

I don't know how long it was before the music stopped, but all of a sudden I came back to earth with a shock similar to having cold water dumped over my head. He had turned on the piano bench and it squeaked, and that was what made me realize just where I was and who I was facing.

"I heard you playing," I began to explain. "I'm sorry if I bothered you..."

He shook his head. "I'm glad you enjoyed it. It's one of my favorite pieces, and sometimes I am as hypnotized by it as you seemed to be. You sat there a full ten minutes after I stopped playing, just staring into space, and if the bench hadn't squeaked it is likely you would have been doing so even longer."

"I've never heard anything like it," I confessed, still feeling that wonderful sense of travel running through my blood. It felt almost as if the music had taken its place.

"Thank you," he said, bowing his head a little in acknowledgement of my compliment before glancing up at the clock. "Well, I've been playing longer than I thought. It's one in the afternoon. Time for lunch."

I followed him like a sleepwalker down the hall and into a dining room, where he told me to set the table. This was a problem, since I had never set a table in my life. At home, servants did that, and at school, we just took the things we were passed, be they plates, knives, forks, whatever. Still, I could remember what the final result looked like, and I managed. The plates, silver, and glasses were already set out, so all I had to do was set them up in the right way. There were linen place mats (like individual tablecloths) in front of two places, so at each place I set out a soup plate, salad plate, fork, knife, spoon, napkins, and tumblers. I placed myself at the right-hand place (after all, he should have the head since it was his house), and I stood behind my chair and waited. He returned after only a few minutes, carrying a large tray holding a covered plate, a pitcher full of something to drink, and a soup tureen that was steaming. These he set in the center of the table and we sat down together.

I was mystified at where the food had come from. "Who cooks for you?" I asked, remembering the cook at home and the cook at school.

He smiled. "I cook for myself. When I was first learning some of the results were pretty dire, but I think I've improved since then."

He served me soup (it looked like a cream or milk soup with vegetables and potatoes) and offered me the covered plate, which turned out to be sandwiches. I wasn't familiar with the filling, but it looked like shredded meat and vegetables in some kind of soft cheese in between dark bread. The drink was nothing more than lemonade, which surprised me since I hadn't known adults drank it. Also, lemons were hard to get since they were starting to go out of season. The largest harvests of lemons happened in autumn, and this was still summer.

At his encouragements to begin eating (and after we had said grace) I took a spoonful of soup and felt as if my tongue had died and found Heaven in a spoon. He wasn't just a cook, he was a god in a chef's hat! (Well, he wasn't wearing one, but I could imagine it easily.) I'd never tasted anything so fabulous. The sandwich and lemonade were also wonderful, but the soup was fit to grace a king's table. While we ate, he told me about how he'd made the food. The lemonade was made with water, honey, and crushed lemons, and the sandwiches were wheat bread he'd made himself (he felt wheat was more healthy to eat than white) beef, water cress, spinach leaves, and what was called Philadelphia cheese. He'd said that he'd discovered it some years back and that it was very useful in many ways. The soup was a cream soup as I'd thought, and it included cream, potatoes, carrots, mushrooms, celery, onion, and herbs. It was plain food, according to him, but it was tasty (delicious, in my opinion) and healty to eat.

I had three bowls of the soup and two sandwiches, and when I leaned back in my chair, replete, I heard him chuckle. "I'd heard that young men were hungry, but I'd never known just how hungry they could be. It's good I decided to fix a lot, just in case."

"You're quite the chef," I said, feeling the slightest bit sleepy with my full stomach. "The cooks at school or home aren't near your level of skill."

He raised his tumbler to me in a toast. "Well, thank you! That's quite a compliment."

With a full stomach, I suddenly felt as if I could talk to him. "Um, Monsieur..." I began.

"Call me Erik."

"Erik, why did you bring me here? Why did you tell me about Mother and Father and you? What plans do you have now?"

He nodded. "I'm surprised you didn't ask earlier, but then, I think you were in shock of some kind. I brought you here so I could tell you the truth and allow you to get to know me. Think about it: If you were in some place where you could get away from me, would you stay with a man in a mask?"

He was right. I wouldn't have, but since I had yet to find a way out (or even see the outside of the house, the place seemed to have no windows or doors to the outside I could spot) I'd been forced to stay where I was. A man in a mask was frightening in his own way, and for the first time, I plucked up the courage to ask about it. "I see what you mean, but why do you wear a mask?"

He propped his chin in his hand and looked at me. "For the same reason I live here by myself: So I don't have to see people and so those people don't see me. I frighten them as much with the mask as without it. I am--disfigured, Phillippe, so disfigured that not even my mother could stand to see my face. It was a marvel that your mother found room in her heart for me."

I nodded. "She's a very loving person."

He agreed, I could tell. "She is the most loving person I have ever known, besides a few I have met in my travels."

He didn't expand on that, and I didn't ask. I sensed there was something very sad about those people he didn't want to discuss. Instead, I plowed ahead with my questions. "So, why did you tell me about Mother and Father and you?"

"I felt you had a right to know--you're fifteen, after all, and not a baby, and I felt I had the right to tell you and have you know about me."

I noticed that he didn't mention my rights to happy oblivion.

"As for my plans now, do you mean my plans in regard to you?" When I nodded he continued. "Well, I have sent your mother a letter. I told her what I've done, where you are now, and that I intend to keep you with me for a month. She needn't worry about you in the slightest. At the end of that month, if you wish to leave and never see or hear from me again, then I will honor that wish. If you wish to keep up our relationship in some way, then I will be more than happy to oblige you, but I am firm in my decision about the length of time we are together. A month is not so long, when you think about it, when you compare it to years or a lifetime."

A month? He wanted me to stay a MONTH? "What about school?" I protested. "It starts in two days!"

"I can teach you, if you're worried about your education, Phillippe. As for your friends, I'll allow you to write to them, and Christine and Raoul, of course."

"But I can't stay a MONTH!" I said, almost frantic.

"Would you prefer another length of time?" he asked, looking a little surprised at my worry. "A year, perhaps?"

"No!" I told him quickly. I wasn't sure if I could stand a month in this odd house, much less a year.

"Are you sure?" he asked. "That was how long I originally planned to keep you with me, but I'm sure Christine would have begun to pine for you after that long."

I slouched in my chair, not able to think. A month? He'd originally planned a year? A month? A year? A month in this house where you couldn't see the outside, living with a man who said he was my father, and not seeing another soul for all that time?

What was I going to do?


	3. Chapter 3

III

After that lunch, he sent me to my room to take a rest—a siesta, he called it, something he'd heard about while in Spain. He said I looked very overwhelmed. I felt in need of a rest, too. I couldn't think, and I had to keep reminding myself to take deep breaths. Once I was in my room, I tried to talk myself back into sense. He intended to keep me for a month, and was a month so bad? No, not really. At least, I didn't think so. Lately, I'd noticed time flying: school years slipping by, summers disappearing in a heartbeat, and holidays going so quickly I'd wondered where the time went. A month, hopefully, would pass in that way. Why was I so worried, anyway? When my nerves refused to quiet themselves, I resorted to an old stand-by that had usually worked in the past. I made a list. I wrote down my worries and thoughts about the whole situation in an attempt to make sense of it.

-I have no idea where in the world I am. If I have to find my way home from here, how would I do that?

-I can't see outside; that bothers me. I feel closed in. There are no doors or windows I can spot. He usually has to point the doors out to me.

-Am I a prisoner here? Will I have to stay inside this house the whole time and never be on my own away from him at any time?

-Why didn't Mother or Father ever _tell _me? I'm sure they would have told me if they felt safe doing so. Did they never tell me because they felt it was dangerous? But why wouldn't they feel it was safe? Could it be this man is dangerous? Mad?

-I'm very confused. He could be my father, but then, he could be someone else entirely, and this could be his revenge on Mother and Father for escaping from them.

-He's a little frightening. The way his music drew me on like that earlier today is worrisome. He could hypnotize me and keep me here just by playing some music.

Once I'd made that list, I made another, this time listing things that intrigued me.

-He has black hair, I have black hair, and Mother and Father have blonde and brown hair. He could be telling the truth.

-We're both voracious readers, and we have the same favorite authors on our shelves.

-We both like music. (Then again, this doesn't mean _much_, so do Mother and Father.)

-Travels. He mentioned travels? To where? It looks like Persia and India, if one's to judge by all the little knick-knacks he has about the house. Some things, though, I don't recognize. So, where has he been?

-He is rich. (Think of all the Charvet suits!) So, how? What does he do for money?

-How did he learn to cook? Was it just trial-and-error, or did someone teach him the basics? If that's true, then who did and when?

-Why are all of the doors hidden in some way? Is it to keep me from finding the way out or to keep others from finding the way in? (Both?)

-How does he do his shopping when he doesn't want others to see him? Those suits and the food didn't purchase or deliver themselves or magically grow in the cupboards! So, how is the shopping done?

-How would he mail his letters?

-What would happen if he became hurt or ill? Would he be all on his own with no one to help him?

-Why does this house have two bedrooms (or more, I haven't seen all of it) when he clearly planned to live alone?

Obviously, this man intrigued me a good deal. I folded the papers up and tucked them away in the desk for later, and then curled up on the chaise-lounge for my "siesta." I didn't know if he would respond badly to my not doing exactly as I was told or not. I hardly knew how much he expected of me in terms of obedience, but I decided not to take any chances.

I became bored very quickly. Very, very bored. There was nothing for me to do, and I really didn't want to read. My cure for boredom at home or school was to go outside and wander about for a bit in the woods, but here I couldn't do that. I was sure he hadn't meant for me to read or occupy myself, but just to rest. How could I rest when I felt bored enough to lose my mind?

According to the clock on my mantel, it was three in the afternoon when he knocked on my door and came in. I welcomed his arrival: it put an end to boredom, and it meant that I didn't have to pretend to rest anymore. Immediately I sat up, eager to do something other than lay there and stare at the molded plaster ceiling.

"Well, Phillippe, do you feel more like yourself?" he asked, sounding friendly. "You look better."

"Much better," I said, not really wishing him to know that I'd been bored out of my skull. "So, what are we going to do now?"

"Anything you like," he said, sounding as if he were smiling underneath the mask. I was getting the feeling that he really wanted to please me, and that he wanted me to like him.

"Could I see the rest of the house?" I asked, feeling my curiosity rise.

"Of course!" he said, sounding eager to show it off. "There's not much else to see, I'm afraid, but there's more."

He showed me the kitchen first. He had the most modern stove that it was possible to buy, as well as the best kitchen implements and containers. Bunches of herbs hung from the ceiling, and a small cold room showed me how he could shorten his shopping trips to once a week instead of once a day. After the kitchen, he showed me his room. It was done in shades of red, and there was a four-poster bed with a canopy. There was also an organ on one wall, and I could see scores on the music stand. On a table lay a violin, and I was certain that it was a Stradivarius! There were bookshelves (more than in my room), and they were full to the top. The walls were covered: drawings, architectural sketches, paintings, and floor plans were tacked to a sheet of pine wood that had been nailed to the wall. It was like the notice board at school. In one sketch, I saw Mother and Father: they were in their wedding outfits, and I looked at Erik wondering why he had drawn that.

"They didn't know I was there to witness their wedding," he explained. "I was up in the choir loft, and later that night, I drew that picture. I draw pictures of all the things I want to remember."

"But I thought you wouldn't want to remember that," I said, trying to understand.

"Why shouldn't I?" he countered. "I loved Christine, and if I couldn't marry her, I at least wanted her to be happy, after all. I realized that when I let them both go. And, strangely, some part of me wanted Raoul to be happy, too. I suppose I began to feel for him as I would a younger, if annoying, brother. I began to want happiness for both of them, and that made seeing the wedding not as difficult as I thought it might have been."

"If you thought it would be difficult, why did you go?"

"I'd always wanted to see her in a wedding dress," he said quietly, his head tilted to one side. "You have to admit, Phillippe, that she looked wonderful in it."

She did. He went on to show me other drawings on the walls and portfolios of his work, explaining what he planned to do with this or that, or the experiments he'd done with countless little oddments that I'd seen scattered over a table in the corner. He showed me an even two-dozen sketches he'd done of Mother, standing, sitting, or asleep. "She'd fallen asleep in her chair over a book, and I couldn't resist the chance to draw that scene," he explained, reassuring me that he hadn't crept into her room at night to draw her.

He took me back to my room then, saying that there was one more room to see on the other side of it. It was a large, empty room with nothing in it.

"Why is this here?" I asked, mystified as to what it was for.

"Well, I no longer had a purpose for this room after your mother went away, so I emptied it out and closed it up," he told me, looking around. "I'm still trying to decide what to do with it. Christine begged me not to use it anymore, and the easiest way to avoid that was to dismantle it."

"Why? What was here?" I asked, not understanding.

"Well, it was the safeguard to the rest of my home. If someone found his way in here he would be trapped, but I've closed it off to the outside now. No one can get in, and very few people realize I'm here."

"You make it sound as if the house were hidden somewhere," I said thoughtfully, looking up at the ceiling.

"It is," he said, putting a hand on my shoulder and leading me out of that room and back into mine. "I'll show you the outside of the house, and then you'll understand."

He led me out into the drawing room and into a small entryway. He closed the door to the house behind us before opening another door that led to the outside. Compared to the inside of the house, the outside was very dim and cool. It smelled musty, and it took me a minute to realize that it wasn't outside at all. No, we were underground somewhere! His home was at the edge of an underground lake. Incredible!

That was when I realized something very disturbing. It was likely that no one ever came here. It was even more likely that if I were in trouble and needed help, no one would hear me calling. If he were to suddenly go mad and try to kill me, I would be at his mercy. If I needed to run away from him, how could I run across a lake? Even if I managed to swim across, how would I find my way to the outside world? If I managed _that_, then what was to guarantee I was anywhere near home? How would I find my way back to Mother and Father? That drug could have played with my sense of time, and I could have been drugged more than once. I could have been drugged for days or even a few weeks and taken altogether out of France!

Before I could panic, he began talking, and I realized that I had to keep him from guessing what I was thinking just in case I had to actually run sometime. He told me how he had built the house under the building, got gas and water piped in, and how he'd rigged up a warning system that let him know if someone was coming. Finally, I could not keep from asking.

"What building are we under?" I asked, staring up at the support structure above me.

For an answer, he pulled out his watch and examined it. "Well, let's see. It's five o'clock now, so they should be beginning."

"Beginning what?" I asked, surprised.

That was when I heard it. There was a gradual swelling of sound, and then I heard it. Music. The sound of a symphony.

"Ah, I love to hear them rehearse," he said, tilting his head back to hear.

We were under the Opera!


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

What happened after my realization that we were under the Opera is still a mystery to me. I remember feeling overwhelmed (again) and I came back to myself in the drawing room, lying on a sofa and staring at the black mask in front of me.

"Are you all right, Phillippe? Speak to me," he said, tapping the side of my face anxiously. "Come on, now, let me know you're all right."

I couldn't speak. All I could think about was a possible earthquake and then the Opera tumbling in on top of us. I could see it sinking slowly over the course of the next month due to some invisible flaw in the supports, leaving me trapped inside this odd house forever. The building above could catch fire and collapse, and we would both be crushed to death. A flood could swell the lake and drown us. Anything could happen.

He turned from me and went to a small cabinet in the corner, where he poured some dark liquid into a glass and returned with it. He knelt beside me again and pressed it against my lips, urging me to drink it down. It smelled alcoholic, and I didn't want to drink it (remembering what had happened last time after having a little wine) but I had very little choice in the matter. I choked on it, certain that I had swallowed liquid fire: It burned all the way down my throat and into my stomach, making me gasp for air.

"What _was_ that?" I demanded, suddenly able to sit up.

"Brandy," he said very calmly, setting the now-empty glass aside. "Do you feel better?"

"Better?" I echoed, not sure how to answer him. "We're under the Opera! What if it collapses on top of us?"

He chuckled, squeezing my shoulder in reassurance. "That won't happen. I helped to build the place, and I used the safest and most secure structure possible. Besides, the cavern outside was there before the Opera was, and it's lasted for years. It's a cylinder-shaped cavern, and a cylinder is the strongest type of column there is, so we're safer down here than we are up there."

"What if it floods or catches fire?"

He stared at me then. "You sure do worry, don't you?" he said kindly, his voice softening. "Neither can happen, I've made sure, and when I said I've made sure, you can trust that. Nothing can hurt us down here."

I had to take his word for it. Once he saw that I had recovered and was feeling better, he relaxed and took a seat across from me. That was when he began to ask me questions, instead of the other way around. When was my birthday? What had I been learning in school? What books had I read? What had been my favorites? What music had I studied? Could I play any instruments or sing? Did I compose? Did I draw at all? What did I draw? What did I know about architecture? Did I know any languages other than French? Could I ride a horse? Did I know anything about medicine?

I answered all of them as best I could. My birthday was September twenty-eighth. I learned all the usual things you learned in school: Greek, Latin, grammar, mathematics, history, geography, science, and literature. Of course, I had special classes Father and Mother had asked for me to have: meetings with a music and singing tutor, and I had lessons with a fencing master. I rode with the nearby riding school, and I had my own horse at home. I could play piano and flute, and of course I could sing, and I did compose. What music had I studied? Any that I heard! (That was a given answer.) I drew a little bit, but it was mostly landscapes. I knew only a little bit about Classical architecture and Romanesque architecture (my favorite styles) but I did like some Palladian, Gothic, and Tudor styles as well. I knew school Greek, Latin, and a little Hebrew, and I had learned some English at school. Beyond that, I knew very little about languages. As for medicine, I knew that it was what you took when you were sick, and if you were sick, you asked the doctor to come see you.

Erik nodded and steepled his fingers under his chin before regarding me. "Well, it seems as if you've made a good start on a lot of things, Phillippe. Where will you go from here?"

I didn't answer that question since it seemed that he'd been asking that of himself. I stayed silent, waiting for him to come out of his brown study. When he did, he favored me with a look that said he had plans for me. What plans those were I did not want to know at the moment. He went to a writing desk and began to jot some things down on a sheet of paper, while I stayed on the sofa and impersonated a lump. I did not know what to say or how to even ask him what he was doing.

"There!" he said, handing the paper to me. "See what you think."

I stared at the paper, wondering what on earth it was. What I read was this:

_architectural styles_

_Spanish, Russian, English, German_

_drawing and drafting_

_anatomy and physiology_

_herbs--preparation, uses, properties_

_singing_

"What's this?" I asked after I'd read the list a few times.

"A plan for your education," he said, smiling at me. "By the time I was your age I had learned a good many of those things, and I was beginning to learn others. I have a strong feeling that you'll like learning those subjects once we start working on them. Was there anything else you might have an interest in? Trust me, I can teach you with no problem."

"Are you a professor or something like it?" I asked, astounded at the range of subjects he claimed to be proficient in.

"No, I am better than a professor, since most professors only specialize in one subject, and I specialize in many."

I didn't know what to say to that. Instead, I focused on the last item. "Why have you put singing? Mother taught me to sing."

He nodded. "I know she has, since I can hear it in the way you speak. But your voice can go further, and there is much untapped potential. We'll work on your voice and see if we can't get at that potential. You'll see I'm right after a few lessons."

He sounded so sure of himself: so sure I'd want his teaching, so sure I'd want to study those things, and so sure that he was right! I was beginning to be angry, but I saw no reason to be so. There was something that was bothering me, but I couldn't see it or put a name to it. Perhaps it was because he was taking my acceptance for granted. How did he know that I wouldn't hide in my room for a month? I could always do that and keep away from him, and whether he taught me or not would be a moot point.

I was ready to march into my room and lock the door behind me, but I reflected for a moment before taking action. If I did that, then what would it accomplish? Most likely nothing. He could always keep me there that month and then keep me another month to make up for the first thirty days I spent in voluntary isolation. It could bore me very quickly and drive me mad at the same time. No, that would do no good. I would have to accept his company and his teaching. I asked myself if it would really be all that bad. No, probably not. I might enjoy it: it was different from what was taught at school, and I did have some slight interest in some of the subjects. Imagine learning a language that used a foreign alphabet! The few samples of Russian writing I'd seen had been indecipherable to me, and the chance to learn how to read that was tempting. Also, a study of architecture might prove interesting.

"All right," I said at last, agreeing to the plan. "But do we have to have lessons today?" I didn't feel ready to start learning with this man just yet.

"No, we'll start the day after tomorrow. I want you to make yourself at home here first. You still look like a startled cat who seems ready to break and run at any moment," he said with a little laugh. "I'd like the fright to wear off before we start work."

Fright? Well, I supposed that I had been frightened. It _was_ frightening to be taken somewhere by a stranger and hear that you were going to stay there for a month. Even more frightening was to hear that that stranger could be your father!

"I have a few things to do, so why don't you go ahead and write a letter to Christine and Raoul, and possibly your school friends? I know you'd like to reassure the latter and ask a few questions of the former. I'll call you for supper."

Dismissed to my room (and feeling slightly put-out, it was like I was a troublesome child being told to go play so I wouldn't bother him), I went and pulled out writing paper, envelopes, ink, pen, and sealing wax. I wrote to my friends first, saying that a friend of the family had spotted me at the Opera and I was in a little trouble, but I would see them after a while. That friend of the family had taken me home with him, and that was why I had not gone back to the hotel.

My letter to Mother and Father was more difficult to write. For a full ten minutes I sat in my chair, wondering what to write. At last, I decided not to try being polite. It was impossible, after all, and I wasn't feeling inclined to be polite. After all, this whole situation was something I'd had a right to know about, and they hadn't told me.

_Dear Mother and Father,_

_He said he's written to you, and if you've already received his letter, then you know where I am now and who I am with and how long I am to stay here. I am all right--a little worried, because I don't know much about him, but other than that, I'm fine, physically. Mentally fine is another story._

_He said that he's my father. I don't know if that is really true, but it's possible. He said that Father is not able to father children. I have black hair, and Father has brown hair, and you, Mother, have blonde hair. Logically, it's possible. Why didn't you ever TELL me? I know you had your reasons, but instead of forbidding me from the Opera, you could have told me about this man! You might have warned me! Now all of the mysterious conversations between you two make sense: the way you would change subjects when I came into the room, the way you would compare me to the memory of someone you both held in your heads; it all makes sense. I understand your comments about something not being possible--remember? The little conversation you had when we were discussing my coming to Paris? And Mother, your warning about strangers! Why didn't you tell me there was someone possibly here who might kidnap me?_

_I don't know what to think, now. He's firm on the length of time I'm to stay with him, and I can already tell he's as determined as I am. (An inherited trait? I don't know, both of you are as well.) He drew up a plan for my education, and some of the subjects are interesting. We eat very well since he is a remarkable cook, and he's insistent on my not getting too worked up. He sent me to my room for a rest this afternoon, and he played music to help me sleep last night. I have plenty of clothes and everything else I need, and my room has several shelves of books. (I don't know why I'm writing all this; I suppose it's because I have no one else to tell it to.) There are lots of trinkets in the cabinet here, they look like they come from somewhere out East, and he's mentioned travels. Has he traveled, Mother? Why did he? Where has he been, and where did he come from?_

_I would be lying if I said he didn't interest me. He interests me immensely and I would like to learn more about him, but is he safe to stay with, Mother? Something about this man frightens you both, I can tell that from the way you've acted and stayed away from Paris all these years, but what is it? Is he somewhat mad? Prone to rages? Violent? Eccentric, but harmless? What is it? He seems very civil and polite, but I know that appearances can be deceiving. To me, he is kind, and he is somewhat fatherly. He is willing to talk to me and teach me, and he's already taking incredible care of me, but what is it about him that frightens you? He wears a mask. Is that it? Is it because he hides his face that he frightens you? Or is it something else? I don't know what it is, I haven't seen anything that really frightens me (beyond being underground or kidnapped), so I can't tell if there is anything to be frightened of. Only your nervousness about my whole coming to Paris gave me a clue about this whole thing._

_He's said that he'll let me write to you, and I suppose that means he'll allow me to receive letters back, so write as soon as you finish reading this. I'll be waiting to hear from you both._

_Phillippe_


	5. Chapter 5

V

I was learning very quickly how demanding of a teacher he was, and I wondered how Mother had been able to study with him for more than a day. By the end of our first day of lessons, I was exhausted and irritated, and I was certain that his patience had been tried as well.

On our first day of lessons, he woke me by playing Mozart's "Dies Irae" from the Requiem. It was ironic that he'd chosen to wake me with a work entitled "Day of Wrath," wasn't it? I wasn't sure if he'd intentionally chosen that piece or not, but it was loud enough to wake me and the dead as well. The poor dead, being woken up by something that bespoke the Day of Judgment! As soon as the organ ceased to play my heartbeat returned to normal and I was able to breathe again.

"Good morning, Phillippe," he said brightly, coming into my room shortly afterward. "Are you awake?"

I stared at him, certain he was joking. "How could I not be? My dream of flying turned into Armageddon!"

_That _made him laugh. "Well, breakfast is in twenty minutes, so you'd best get up and get ready."

I wasn't laughing, but I did as he said. Once my room was in order and I was washed and dressed, I made my way to the kitchen (that was where he said he always took breakfast) and I dropped onto a bench at the trestle table. I was awake, but part of me still felt sleepy. As if he could tell how I felt, he placed a cup of café au lait in front of me and urged me to drink it down, saying it would help me wake up. I sipped at it while he served up oat porridge with cinnamon and sugar, orange slices, and croissants with fruit preserve. While we ate, he asked me what I wanted to start with first.

"You mean which lesson?" I asked, just to make sure. "Well, architecture, if you don't mind."

"Not at all," he said, and as soon as we had cleaned up from our meal, he led me into the drawing room which had also become our study overnight. He placed me at a desk (rather like a small table and chair) and took a seat beside me in another chair. To my surprise, he did not start talking (as most of my professors did), but he simply placed a book on the desk in front of me and opened it to the first chapter. The chapter title, "Neolithic Architecture" surprised me. What on earth was Neolithic? I'd never heard of it. I'd assumed that we would start with Greek and Roman architecture!

"This is the earliest type of architecture," he began, pointing to a woodcut of what looked like a jumble of stones half-buried in the ground. "We'll begin here."

And begin we did. I learned all about the Neolithic peoples and how they lived, and I learned how their lives and environments influenced how they built. According to the book and Erik, Neolithic peoples lived all over the world and had left buildings for us to find. The buildings were characterized by stone, wattle-and-daub, and mud brick. The more memorable buildings were the tombs they made for burying their dead, and the walls of some of those were covered with paintings of people and animals.

Once we had finished the chapter, he asked me to sketch the plan of a tomb that had been included in the book. I did the best I could, but I had to sketch it four times before he was satisfied with it. That was no end of frustrating because I wasn't really a good artist. "We'll have to remedy that," was all he said.

"How?" I asked. "You have to have talent in order to be a good artist, and I have no artistic talent at all! My friend Pierre does, though," I added as an afterthought. "He's always been surprised that I can't draw."

"Everyone draws," he told me. "It's just a matter of training your hands to portray what you see or what you can imagine. You'll see."

I did see. After we had finished our architecture lesson, he pulled out paper and pencils and began my first drawing lesson. It began with simple shapes in just one dimension: I had to produce copies of shapes he'd drawn, so I drew squares, circles, triangles, ovals, rectangles, and simple regular polygons. Those I recognized from geometry, but drawing anything without a ruler was torture.

"Why can't I use a ruler?" I complained. "It will get done much more quickly and be neater than what I'm drawing now."

"The focus of this lesson isn't to produce something neat," he stated. "It's just to get your hand used to drawing shapes. Executing drawings neatly will come with drafting lessons later. Right now, just focus on making the shapes and to deepest Hades with being neat!"

I filled five large sheets of paper front and back with figures of various sizes, none of them neat and not a single straight line to be seen. I couldn't tell if he was pleased, disappointed, or didn't care what my drawings looked like since he set them aside and said that they were fine. Then, he launched right into mathematics, which I loathed. When he realized that I wasn't paying attention he stopped and waited very quietly until I looked at him.

"Is it just me, or do you have the hardest time paying attention?" he asked in a voice barely above a whisper. "Am I that bad a teacher?"

"No, I just...don't like mathematics," I admitted. "I never have."

He considered this, and something told me that he was surprised to hear it. "Mathematics is beautiful, Phillippe."

I had suspected that he was mad before, but now I was certain of it. "It's all numbers and equations and arithmetic. How can that be beautiful?" Only a madman would consider the subject beautiful.

"No, really, that's not mathematics at all. Mathematics is the science of _patterns_, not numbers. The patterns within the science are beautiful. Trust me."

I raised an eyebrow. There was no way he was going to convince me of what he was saying.

"We'll start with the Fibonacci sequence," he said, coming to sit beside me and pulling out a sheet of paper and a pencil.

I hadn't expected to be interested in anything having to do with mathematics, but as he wrote and drew for my benefit, I could understand what he meant when he said that mathematics was beautiful. The Fibonacci sequence was simply the sum of two numbers and that sum added to the numeral before it, such as 0+1 is 1, 1+1 is 2, 1+2 is 3, 2+3 is 5, and so on. The sequence could not end because numbers and counting were infinite. There would always be a bigger number. I saw no point to this sequence until he explained to me that trees' branches grow according to it. If the numerals were paired as fractions, then the higher up in the sequence one went the closer one would be to the Golden Ratio, or 1.618. Plants grew according to it, and architects designed their buildings using rectangles constructed from it. Even spirals were "golden" or perfect spirals when constructed to that ratio. It was called the Golden Ratio or the Divine Ratio or the Perfect Ratio. He covered the paper with Golden Rectangles and Golden Spirals using a ruler and the ratio, explaining that such constructions were thought to be the most aesthetically pleasing. He taught me how to construct the figures myself, and I had to admit that I liked them and that I enjoyed that part of the lesson.

That was the high point of our day. The rest of the lessons were abysmal (I did not wish to work and I was distracted with my own thoughts) and I had to admit that I was not a willing student. I was still somewhat resentful of the way I'd been kidnapped and was now being forced to reside with this man, and those circumstances had me behaving like a petulant teenager rather than as the young man that I wished the world to see. I was furious, and that very fury had me behaving in ways I would never have considered indulging in a few days ago.

My thoughts always returned to my parents never divulging something so important. Why had they not told me? Why?

At last, he called an end to the lessons and told me that he had to go out for a few hours, but he would return and we would have supper. I went to my room, where I indulged in pacing about and throwing the pillows and cushions. I knew I was angry and I knew that what I was doing was childish, but it made me feel better. Why had I suddenly become so angry and recalcitrant during lessons? Perhaps it was because I didn't even have the refuge of school from this man. Perhaps he reminded me of a teacher I disliked? (I couldn't think of any, though.) I paced some more and thought about it, but I failed to come up with any answers.

His return some time later brought me out of my thoughts and to the supper table, where I ate something that I paid no attention to and ignored the majority of his conversation. However, he caught my attention when he said that there was a letter for me.

"A letter? From Mother and Father?" I was so excited, relieved, (anything!) to get a letter that I leapt to my feet.

He nodded, once. "Yes. Would you like it now?"

I held out my hand in answer, and he pulled it from his jacket pocket. Once it was in my hands I rushed to my room, intent on reading it right away in relative privacy. The handwriting on the outside was Mother's, and as I broke the seal and unfolded the letter, I saw that she had written it all.

_Dear Phillippe,_

_Oh, darling, we are both so sorry. There must have been countless times when we wished to tell you, but something always frightened us from saying what we wished to say. We can only beg your forgiveness and hope to help you understand. We've written to Erik and asked him to let you come home, but he has already refused that request, as well as our request to come see you. Erik is determined he shall have you for a month, and when he makes up his mind about something, there is very little that could change it. He has traveled, so ask him to tell you about his travels. He adores telling stories almost as much as making music. As for his being dangerous--no, neither one of us believe he would harm you, but do not ever touch his mask, try to remove it, or ask him to show you his face. He becomes enraged when these things happen, so for your own sake, do not! You cannot know when that rage of his shall become too much for even him to control! We know where you are, but Erik has said that if we arrive at the Opera, he shall take you somewhere else and he shall keep you with him always. We do not dare risk it, Phillippe. One month, and then you shall be home. Obey Erik and do nothing to anger him, and we shall see you in a month. Take care of yourself, Phillippe. We shall write every day, and you write to us every day, and soon we shall be in one another's arms again._

_All our love,_

_Mother and Father_

I refolded the letter, shivering and certain that I was lost. Now I knew why I had been so agitated: I had been counting on them to come and save me and was impatient at the time it was taking. Now, I knew that they did not dare to come. I was trapped in this strange little palace underground with this man who said he was my father, and I did not know if I could be safe with him or not.


	6. Chapter 6

VI

It seemed all my inclination to fight my circumstances went out of me after I received Mother and Father's first letter. I had been counting on them coming to my rescue, and not on their telling me that they would see me in a month. I supposed that a month wasn't really all that long, but it seemed interminable to me. Would I see no one else but Erik? What if I made him angry? Would I spend the entire month tiptoeing around the house, trying to avoid him?

Erik did not seem concerned about Mother and Father's letters in the slightest. After all, he had said that they could write, but he never asked about what they wrote. I received a letter from Pierre and the rest of my friends, and they wished me luck. (They thought that I was being kept at home by my parents as punishment for sneaking out to go to the Opera.) They told me all the school gossip and said that they couldn't wait until I got back to school. I wrote back, saying that I couldn't wait, either.

It was true. Every day I felt as if I were walking a tightrope over a deep chasm, and demons were on either side, shaking the rope so I would fall in. Why did I feel this way? Because of Erik. I did not know if I could trust him, and the tone of Mother and Father's first letter made me feel as if he were dangerous. What would I do if he were? How could I get away if I were suddenly threatened? I had no idea how to get back up to the Opera and the world above. I kept my distance from him as much as possible, but it was difficult. Half of me wanted to trust him most of the time, and the other half did not dare trust him all of the time.

Our days followed a pattern. He would wake me by playing music, and we would have a hearty breakfast together in the kitchen. After that, we would retire to the study and work on my lessons for a few hours, and then we would have lunch. After lunch came an hour of doing what I liked, then more lessons, which were followed by some time spent in exercise. Erik insisted on that. He showed me several stretches and exercises to do, and I could actually feel myself getting stronger. After exercising I would have a quick wash and join Erik in the dining room for supper. As always, the food was superb, but as time passed, my appetite diminished. I was sure that Erik noticed, but he never mentioned it.

After supper, we went back to the study, not for lessons, but just for quiet evenings together. Often, he would play music or read aloud, and I was content to listen. The music was every bit as intoxicating as champagne, and when Erik read to me, I felt as if I had suddenly gone to live inside the book. When we did not have music or reading, Erik would pull out a game of some sort, and we would play together. I knew how to play chess and checkers, but not solitaire, backgammon, or go. The latter three he taught me so we could play, but I was an indifferent player. When games, music, or reading did not occur, we talked. Actually, Erik talked and I listened. He told me of his travels all over the world—India, Persia, Russia, Italy, Spain, and other places—and in each location he visited, he heard stories. Folk and fairy tales, so he told them to me. These tales were very different from Perrault's and Grimm's collections of tales that I had been familiar with, so they were a treat to hear. I heard of Baba Yaga the witch, Katschei the Deathless, Beautiful Vasilissa, and Father Frost in Russia, of Prince Rama and Princess Sita and the Monkey Nursemaid in India, Prince Khorshid in the Simorgh from Persia, Strega Nona in Italy, and the stories of the Water of Life, the Wounded Lion, and the Bird of Truth from Spain. Often, the tales would so draw me in that I would take a seat near Erik, often beside him on the sofa, leaning forward the better to hear. One night, when he told me the story of Katschei the Deathless, he had me so enthralled that I had not noticed how close I had come to him, and when he described the entrance of the evil wizard and spoke his curse of doom in an evil cackle, I jumped from my seat and landed on top of Erik. He chuckled and shifted me off his lap, saying that he hadn't meant to scare me, and perhaps we had better stop? No, I wanted to hear the end. Was I sure? Of course I was sure! What I hadn't noticed was that he kept his arm around me, and when I realized it, I found I hadn't minded it at all. Even more surprising, I'd enjoyed being so close.

I had been there about two weeks when Erik surprised me with a row on the lake and a walk about the cellars. He said that it seemed as if I could do with a change of scene, so we would take a walk. I walked with him, and as we walked, he described how the Opera had been built, and how it had taken ages to pump out the cellar so the foundations could be put in, and what it was like to flood the lowest level again. He told me how every now and then the firemen would walk through the cellars to make sure that the gaslines and other appurtenances were working properly, and how he'd accidentally frightened one poor young man called Pepin.

"I'd forgotten that they'd be in the cellars that day," Erik explained. "The poor man looked as if he had seen a ghost."

"Ten to one, he thought he had," I pointed out. "You certainly make an effective ghost!"

Erik gave a quiet laugh. "Most likely." He'd sounded pleased at that, and it made me wonder.

"Erik? Could I ask you something?"

"Yes?"

"Why do you live down here in the cellars?"

He stopped and regarded me quietly. "Your mother did not tell you?"

"No. Does she know?"

"Oh, yes, she knows."

He'd become quiet, so I persisted. "I can understand a wish for privacy, but isn't this taking it a little far?" Something occurred to me then, and I spoke before I could stop myself. "Is it the same reason that you wear the mask?"

He looked at me quickly. "Your mother didn't tell you the reason for that, either?"

I shook my head.

"What did she tell you? About the mask, I mean."

"She said that I shouldn't ask you to take it off, or try to remove it myself, or even mention it, but I can't help thinking that the two—the cellars and the mask—are connected."

Erik nodded. "Yes, they are. I wear the mask because I frighten people with my appearance, and I live down here because even with the mask, I frighten them. They see me, scream, and run away. Either that, or they demand that I take it off, and what they see when I do frightens them. It is better that I am down here, alone, than up there terrifying people."

"You still manage to terrify people down here. What about all the stories about the Opera Ghost?"

He chuckled. "That is so I am left alone, Phillippe. No one is daring enough to brave the Ghost in his lair."

I nodded. "I see. Is the mask really necessary?"

"It is. I'm surprised you haven't asked about it before."

"Mother's warning," I explained. "She said that you would become angry, but I suppose that I couldn't help asking this time."

"When your mother first saw it, she tried to snatch it from my face," he said, sounding sad. "Later, she managed it, and that was one of the few times I have ever lost my temper so completely with a lady. I thought she was going to die because she had seen me, and she thought I was going to die for the same reason."

I tried to imagine this but couldn't. "Because she had seen your face?"

"Yes. It is not pretty, Phillippe."

I couldn't be sure if he were joking or not. "A lot of people aren't pretty. You should see my Latin teacher!"

"Does your Latin teacher cause people to run away screaming?"

"No, but there are times when the students are tempted to do so, especially when he starts about the Fall of Rome."

"Well, people run from me without any prompting. It is better for everyone that I wear a mask."

"But that can't be comfortable, can it? To always have your face covered?"

"As long as the mask fits correctly, it's comfortable. Besides, I'm used to it."

I fell silent then, thinking about this. It sounded as if he had worn a mask for his entire life, but if he had, what had he done when he was a child? "What about when you were a child? Did you wear one then?"

"My mother made me one, and I wore it, yes."

"Did you ever ask her why?"

"Yes."

"What did she say?"

He stopped then and took my arm, turning me toward him. I had not noticed how his demeanor had changed; he had gone from relaxed and thoughtful to tense and seething with emotion. For the first time in quite some time, I felt truly afraid of him.

"Why are you asking these questions all of a sudden?" he demanded. "Do you not believe what I'm telling you? Do you need me to take off my mask and terrify you so you _will_ believe me? Trust me, Phillippe, if you see my face, you'll never be the same again! You will wake screaming from nightmares every night, and the specter of it will haunt your days, and you will never be rid of the sight of me!"

I couldn't speak, and when I tried to pull away, his fingers tightened about my arm, pulling me closer.

"You should know, Phillippe, that your father is a corpse, a corpse that lives and breathes and feels; a corpse that terrifies! I am built of Death from head to foot, and the only fitting place for such a corpse is under the ground! Because I am a corpse, my mother gave me my first mask, and I have worn one ever since. Now, will you cease your questions, or do I need to remove my mask to make you believe me?"

Wildly, I shook my head, for I was terrified enough. I believed what he said.

"Will you keep asking questions?" he wanted to know, giving me a little shake with each word.

Again, I shook my head, wishing only to be released.

"I'll hold you to it," he said calmly, letting go my arm.

I fled. I turned from him and ran, thinking only to get away and to the world up above, that world where he did not wish to go. I was terrified that he would become angry again, and that when he did, he would kill me. I had never seen anyone so angry and so _furious_ before. My arm ached where he had grasped it, and my head hurt, and my heart pounded with fear. What if I asked him a question again? What if I couldn't stop myself from asking about the mask or a past he did not want to discuss? Often, I blurted things out without thinking, and such a scenario could happen again so easily. Better to run now and live than to remain and be killed, I thought.

"Phillippe!"

I ran faster, for I heard his hurried footsteps behind me, and I was certain that he was ready to kill me this time for running from him. In my terror I heard what I thought was his anger, and I kept running, pelting headlong down dimly-lit corridors and rushing up and down stairways, _anything_ to keep away from him!

"Phillippe! Stop! Don't go down that way!"

I kept running.

"For God's sake, go to the _left!_"

I heard his warning just as I went to the right, and a moment later I felt the floor underneath my feet give way. I screamed, certain that I was moments away from death in the dark, but a hand grasped the back of my collar and held on tight as rubble fell around me. I felt a large piece of stone strike the hand and my neck, and for the second time, I fell. I struck water along with the falling pieces of brick, and I thrashed about, trying to find some sort of purchase on the walls to get out of the icy cold pool that was sapping my strength. My clothes were soaked and were dragging me down, and I thought with panic that I was going to drown.

Once again, a hand fastened itself on my collar and began to lift me, and I realized that it was Erik, pulling me out of harm's way and back onto firm ground. I grasped his arm and began to inch my way up with my feet, thanking God and whatever saint that watched over fools that Erik was there. As I was pulled away from the opening, Erik set me on my feet and looked me over, checking me for injury.

"Are you all right, Phillippe?"

"Y-y-es-s," I managed to get out from between chattering teeth. I had _never_ been so cold before!

In the next instant he grabbed hold of my shoulders and gave me one almighty shake. "What did you think you were doing, you stupid child?" he demanded. "Didn't you hear me shouting that there were traps up ahead? Why did you keep going?"

_Now_ he was angry, but it wasn't the cold anger that had frightened me before. Still, it frightened me, and the next thing I knew, I was sobbing. I kept sobbing even though he had wrapped his arms around me and was telling me that he was sorry, he hadn't meant to frighten me so badly, and that it was all right to be scared, and that he should have known better than to let his temper get the better of him because of a few innocent questions. Despite my being almost grown, he wrapped me in his cloak, picked me up, and he carried me all the way back to the house. He ran a hot bath for me, helped me undress, helped me wash and dry off, and then practically dressed me again in nightclothes and put me into bed. During all of this, I cried like the smallest child, and it felt as if I would never stop. I didn't care how old I was or that young men didn't cry. All I knew was that my tears were bringing the most wonderful relief, and I welcomed them. Through all of it, Erik sat on the side of my bed and kept hold of my hand, smoothing my hair and keeping me well-supplied with handkerchiefs and cool water.

Eventually, my flood of tears turned to a river, then a stream, then a trickle, and then they stopped. My head ached, my throat, eyes, and nose were sore, but I felt so much better that I was amazed. My sense of dread—the fear that I'd lived with since waking in Erik's home—was gone.

"I have a feeling that you've been carrying that around in you since I brought you here," Erik said quietly. "Have you been afraid the whole time, Phillippe?"

"I think so," I admitted, my voice thick with tears.

"I'm sorry," he said, smoothing my hair again. "I didn't mean to have you so frightened. I just wanted to get to know you."

I nodded. "I understand. I mean, I understand why you brought me here to get to know me, at least."

He nodded. "I'm sorry it's been so difficult for you, Phillippe. I'd thought that once you were here a while, you would be all right with it, but I suppose that hasn't happened."

"I'm all right, now," I assured him. "I was so afraid that I would do something that would make you angry enough to kill me. After Mother's warnings, I became sure that the possibility of that happening was very great. Why would she have mentioned it, otherwise?"

He sighed. "Why, indeed? Do you feel as if you can trust my word that I would not hurt you, Phillippe? You are the one joy in life that I'd never thought to experience, and I would not extinguish that joy for anything. I can't promise never to be angry again, but I can promise not to frighten you with my anger again."

Amazingly, I started crying again, and I had wrapped my arms around Erik and buried my face in his chest, sobbing. I felt his arms go around me and he rocked me back and forth, humming a lullaby to calm me. I was so close to him I could hear his heart beat, as steady and strong as a drum. His humming voice was a steady thrum in his chest, and slowly, I could feel myself relaxing again, and I was perfectly happy to sink into my pillows with Erik stretched out beside me, his arms still around me, letting me know he was there. For the first time, I went to sleep being held by Erik, and for the first time, he went to sleep holding his son.


	7. Chapter 7

VII

I was miserable. There was no other word to describe how I was feeling. I woke up the next morning on fire—my head, my throat, everything. At the same time, amazingly, I was cold. I couldn't stop shivering and I wished that I had a few more blankets on top of me. I was alone in my bed and I didn't stop to wonder where Erik had gone. I was much too preoccupied with how I was feeling. What was wrong with me?

My head swimming, I fought my way to a sitting position and looked about for Erik. He was no longer in my room and I couldn't hear him anywhere. Had he left the house? That thought drove me to my feet, but in the next moment I grasped the bedpost in a fit of vertigo as my head swam.

"Phillippe?"

Abruptly, he was there, standing in the doorway and gazing at me with concern. When had the door opened? Why hadn't I heard it?

"Phillippe, are you all right?" he asked, stepping into the room. "You're pale."

"I'm burning and I'm frozen," I croaked. I really didn't care that it didn't make sense.

In a few short strides he crossed the room and laid a hand on my forehead. "_Merde,_" he gasped. "You're burning up, Phillippe! Here, lie back down. I'll be right back."

Time seemed to do funny things then since he was back almost immediately and telling me to do something that didn't make sense. Why did he want me to open my mouth?

"Please open your mouth," he said frantically. "I have to take your temperature!"

I didn't understand, but I opened my mouth obediently and felt a glass rod enter my mouth and slide under my tongue. I closed my lips around it automatically and nodded when Erik told me to leave it in for five minutes. My throat burned and my head ached and I wished I could die. Suddenly the thermometer was pulled from my mouth and I heard Erik swear again.

"Phillippe?"

I fought my eyes open and looked at him.

"Your temperature is very high," he said, putting pillows behind me so I could sit up. "Open your mouth and let me see your throat."

For the next few minutes I obeyed all his orders while he looked at my throat, in my ears, and shone a light in my eyes. As soon as he said I could I dropped into the pillows with a sigh.

"It's nothing too serious," he said, sounding vastly relieved. "Thank goodness."

"What is it?" I rasped, wishing my throat would quit hurting.

"A case of pharyngitis," he said, cleaning the thermometer and putting it into a leather bag. "Your ducking in that cold water yesterday couldn't have helped."

"What's pharyngitis?"

"An infection of the pharynx," he told me. "The pharynx is your throat."

I thought about all the classes I'd had in school and not one of them had mentioned the pharynx. What a waste.

"The good news is that the infection isn't that bad yet. I'll compound some medicine for you and get you something to drink." Now that he knew what it was he seemed much calmer, but I'd noticed that he hadn't yet mentioned the bad news. Didn't the bad news go with the good news?

The day passed in a haze for me. My mind wandered with fever and I couldn't keep track of time. A minute seemed an hour and an hour passed in a minute. What could have been minutes or hours after taking my temperature Erik was there with a steaming mug of something that smelled bitter and slightly vile.

"What's that?" I croaked, wishing my throat would stop hurting.

"Willow bark tea," he said, helping me sit up and pressing the cup against my lips. "It will help bring down your fever and help your head stop hurting."

That was all I needed to hear and I gulped the stuff down without realizing just how awful it would taste. I gagged, but the tea stayed down and I handed the cup back to Erik.

"Why are you glaring at me as if I'd tried to poison you?" he asked.

"That was terrible!" I complained. I had never, ever tasted anything so obscene in my life!

"Sometimes medicine has to taste bad," he reminded me. "Wait until you taste the medicine I'm going to give you to treat the infection."

I groaned, but Erik took pity on me and brought me a pitcher of cool water to drink. A few glasses of water got rid of the awful taste in my mouth and I was able to fall into a doze for a while. Minutes or hours, I had no idea how long it lasted. I woke up to the sound of a tray being placed on my bedside table and sat up to stare at a bowl of beef broth, some bread, and a glass and pitcher of what looked like lemonade.

"How are you feeling?" Erik asked, laying a hand on my forehead.

"Fairly awful, thank you," I said honestly. "Could I go back to sleep?"

"You need to eat something," he told me, propping me up once again with pillows. "Your body needs fuel in order to fight this illness."

"It also needs rest," I said pointedly.

"Don't be childish, Phillippe," he said, spooning up some broth and holding it out to me. "Open up."

"Oh, honestly-!" I snapped, staring at him. Did he really intend to feed me? "I'm not a baby!"

"Then prove it."

I glared at him and if looks had been able to kill, he would have caught fire in an instant. He chuckled as if he knew what I was thinking, but I allowed him to lay the tray across my lap and I began to eat. I managed most of the broth and half of the bread and all of the lemonade. My sore throat welcomed it; Erik had sweetened the lemonade again with honey and it felt marvelous going down.

"Better?" he asked, removing the tray and letting me flop back into a recumbent position.

"Yes, thank you," I said politely.

Erik took the glass from the tray and filled it again with lemonade. Then, he took a small glass bottle out of his waistcoat. "This is your first dose of the medicine that will get rid of the infection," he said, removing the bottle's cork. "It will taste foul, but another glass of lemonade should take the taste away. You should take it now while you have food in your stomach."

I took the bottle and knowing it would be a bad idea, I sniffed it. I coughed and my eyes watered as the odor hit my nose. "I have to drink this?"

"Yes," Erik said firmly.

"What makes it smell so awful?"

"Garlic," he said.

I stared at him. "Garlic?"

"Garlic can be used to treat some infections," he elaborated. "Also there are a few other things in there that are good for people who are ill."

I was still staring. "Garlic?"

"Drink it down, Phillippe."

I held my breath and upended the bottle into my mouth and this time I nearly did gag it back up. Without a word Erik held the glass of lemonade out and I drank it faster than I'd swallowed the medicine. In a minute the awful taste was gone and I sighed in relief. Once again I looked at him and raised an eyebrow. "Garlic?"

He laughed. "Yes, Phillippe. Garlic."

"Flaah."

He laughed again, spread another blanket over me and left me to my rest.

Space

Nightmares plagued me. If asked I couldn't say what they were, but I knew they were evil and that they meant to do me harm. They circled me like birds of prey intent on tearing me apart. I cried out, fighting to get away, but neither my arms nor legs would work. Something heavy was on top of me, holding me down and threatening to smother me.

"Phillippe!"

Who was that? What did they want?

"Phillippe! Wake up!"

I was awake already! There was no way that such torment could be a dream!

"Wake up!"

Suddenly, my eyes were open and I was staring at Erik. I could see his eyes gazing at me with concern.

"Dearest God, Phillippe!" he cried, still holding onto my shoulders. "You're on fire!"

"What?" This alarmed me more than I could say. Had I knocked a candle over?

"How long has your fever been like this?" he wondered aloud, disappearing into the bathroom. I heard water running and then he was back with a damp washcloth to put on my head. "Wait here. I'll get you some willow."

"Laced with hemlock, I hope?" I joked. With the way I felt, death would be rather a nice change. My nightmare was still fogged around me and I hoped that a joke or two would help me wake up the rest of the way.

"Dear God, no," he said. "What on earth were you dreaming of? I'll be right back."

Time did funny things again because no sooner had he said that than he was back with a hot cup of willow bark tea. I drank it without an argument even knowing how bad it tasted. I felt terrible and suddenly I coughed.

Erik stared at me. "You're coughing?"

"That's the first time," I said, trying to forestall any panic on his part. He didn't look far from it.

"Wait here."

Where on earth was I going to go?

I must have fallen asleep again because I could remember dreaming something about an opera and a ghost and pair of pointe shoes that danced on their own. Then I opened my eyes and there was Erik, measuring different powders and what looked like dried leaves into a large bowl. Once he was satisfied with the combination he added a kettleful of boiling water, turned my head toward the bowl and began to fan the steam toward me.

"Breathe the steam in," he instructed me. "Breathe as deep as you can, all right?"

I nodded and tried to do as he said, but each time I took a deep breath I coughed. Each time I coughed it got worse and began to hurt.

"Try shallow breaths instead if it hurts too much to breathe deeply," he said. "Singers' breaths are not necessary right now."

I nodded and coughed. "Is this normal for pharyngitis?"

"It's gotten worse," he said. "That's all."

"Then why are you so worried?" I wanted to know. I was not used to seeing him scared.

"Well, this is the first time I've had a child and this is the first time that that child has ever been sick!" he said, pacing. "Dear God above, how could Christine and Raoul stand having you sick?"

I laughed and coughed. "You should have seen them when I had the measles."

He stared at me and shuddered. "I've heard about cases of measles. No, thank you."

I kept coughing and I could tell that the coughing worried Erik. Each time I coughed I could swear I saw him wince. What made it all worse was the fact that I couldn't get very much air in between coughs. A deep breath could trigger another cough and that would be that.

Once again, time did what it liked and played tricks on me. It hadn't felt as if I had slept, but suddenly it was morning and Erik was there with toast and tea and trying to get me to wake up enough to eat. A few bites of toast and a sip of tea and I was unable to take any more. I had my medicine and some more willow tea and went back to sleep; that time I knew I'd slept.

I dreamed. Back were the black demons, tormenting and screaming at me.

_Do you know what he is?_

Who were they talking about?

_Do you know what he's done?_

Were they talking about Erik? What did they mean?

_You know the things he's done,_ they howled at me. _He's just waiting. That's all. He's waiting._

Waiting for what?

_Once you cease watching him, once you forget to be on your guard, you'll be his next victim._

Victim? What on earth did they mean?

_He's just waiting. That's all, you foolish child. Just waiting…waiting…waiting…_

Waiting? What were they getting at?

_We'll be waiting, too, child._

With that final promise, the demons mocking me left and I was able to actually rest for a small while before pain began. My chest hurt and I felt as if I were being choked. I tried to call for Erik, for Mother and Father, but no one heard me or came to my aid. Slowly, far too slowly for it to bring relief, the pain faded and I slipped into darkness.

Space

When I woke up next I knew what Lazarus felt when Jesus resurrected him. I couldn't believe how deeply I'd slept. I felt completely drained and found I couldn't move when I tried to sit up. What was wrong with me now?

"Thank God," I heard Erik breathe. He sounded just as exhausted as I felt. "Welcome back to the waking world, Phillippe."

"What?" I whispered. I couldn't speak any more loudly than that; I was still far too tired.

"How much do you remember?"

"Remember of what?"

"Never mind," Erik said wearily. "You've been under a long time. How do you feel?"

"Tired," I said, feeling more tired than I could describe. That word would have to do.

"I expect you'd be so."

"What? I don't understand."

"You've been in a fever for the last three days, Phillippe. I haven't been able to get a coherent word out of you for that whole time. Your fever's finally broken and it looks like you're on the mend. Does your chest hurt?"

I took a breath. "No. At least, I don't think so. Why?"

"You were coughing a lot and you were coughing very hard," Erik explained. "I was afraid you'd hurt yourself."

"I think I'm all right," I confessed.

"I'm glad," he said, pouring me some water and helping me drink. "You can't tell how glad. Do you feel as if you could sleep again?"

I nodded. "Yes."

"All right. Get some sleep."

Going to sleep was easy but at that point waking up was beyond my capabilities for more than a few minutes at a time. It could have been minutes or hours later that I woke up and Erik was talking to me. I knew he was trying to tell me something but what it was…well, I was sure that if it was really important he would tell me again.

I was certain I dreamed again, but this time the dream was amazingly real. I saw the boat on the underground lake again, the passages, and then surprisingly I was outside, being carried in Erik's arms somewhere. None of this made sense.

"Just hold on, Phillippe," I heard. "It won't be that long before we get to where we're going."

"Where are we going?"

"Somewhere that's better for you," he said. "Ah, here it comes."

I could hear horses and wheels, so I craned my neck around until I could see what was coming. A closed carriage pulled up in front of us and Erik opened the door, laid me down on one of the cushioned seats, and got in himself before closing the door. He wrapped a blanket around me, put a pillow under my head, and tapped the roof of the carriage to let the driver know that we were ready to set off.

"I've missed something at some point," I said, fighting going back to sleep.

"It doesn't surprise me," Erik said, giving a tired little chuckle. "We're going to a good place for your convalescence, Phillippe. You'll recover faster there."

I nodded and closed my eyes. "I already feel better."

"You're still very weak," he said quietly. "Try to go back to sleep."

He didn't have to tell me. Even as he spoke, I could feel consciousness slip away again.


End file.
